


Sleeping Pattern

by alisaj



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Broken Friendships, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Possession, Pre-Slash, post-3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisaj/pseuds/alisaj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're taking you to a doctor," he says, only once Stiles is trapped within the moving vehicle.</p><p>"You think a normal doctor is going to be able to help me?" Stiles asks. His voice is still raspy, like it hasn't recovered from its misuse at the hands of the nogitsune.</p><p>"We're not going to see a normal doctor," is all John says, tapping his fingers irritatingly against the leather of the steering wheel. Stiles wonders where he managed to find one. Maybe he's been spending some time at the animal clinic with Alan Deaton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Pattern

Scott's angry at him. He pretends not to be, but he can't help what he feels. He can't help the resentment gnawing in his chest at the fact that if Stiles hadn't been possessed by a millenias-old fox demon, Allison wouldn't have died.

Stiles needs help. Every time he lies down in his bed with the unwashed, pungent sheets his eyes are so wide it gives him a headache, weeks of torturing himself trying to keep awake ingrained in his broken mind. He can't sleep, even though he tries. In the middle of the night he'll scream in frustration at the inability to switch off his mind's light switch, prompting his dad to scramble into the room in a panic that his son hasn't really returned.

He has been returned by the nogitsune, returned as damaged goods that can't be put back on the shelf and resold to anyone else. Nobody owns him now, as much as his dad tries to take care of him. But there's not enough time in the day for working and looking after your insomniac teenage son.

Eventually, Stiles gets 'woken up' one morning (where he's lying on his side with his eyes wide open) and told to follow his dad.

"We're taking you to a doctor," he says, only once Stiles is trapped within the moving vehicle.

"You think a normal doctor is going to be able to help me?" Stiles asks. His voice is still raspy, like it hasn't recovered from its misuse at the hands of the nogitsune.

"We're not going to see a normal doctor," is all John says, tapping his fingers irritatingly against the leather of the steering wheel. Stiles wonders where he managed to find one. Maybe he's been spending some time at the animal clinic with Alan Deaton.

"What are they gonna do, Dad, magic me better?" He tries to sound biting, snappy like a pubescent teenager, but there's a desperate break in his voice that betrays him.

John sighs, shoulders heaving like the weight of the world is still settled upon his shoulders. The weight of the town is, in any case. Stiles wonders how he's still Sheriff. Maybe everyone in town has clocked onto all the supernatural shit and lets them get on with it. Maybe they're just stupid.

"I don't know," he bites back. "Why don't we go and see?"

The 'doctors' surgery is perfectly average looking, on a busy street in the middle of a big town an hour's drive away. Stiles doesn't even bother reminding his dad that he has a driving license, because even he can see himself becoming a pile of red liquid and blue metal.

But the waiting room is wallpapered with help leaflets, half of the chairs have bent legs or are broken. An old lady is sitting on one side of the room, with another opposite. A little boy and his mother are at the back of the room, where they have provided children's books and unwanted toys that have been donated by spoilt kids.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" he murmurs. The old lady and the child are staring at him. He knows he looks like shit. The bags under his eyes are black; he looks like he's smudged eyeliner halfway across his face. He's thin, cheekbones razor sharp against the pale wash of his skin.

"Yes."

John walks over to the middle-aged receptionist and says something. Her face clouds in understanding, and she gets up from behind the desk. Unsure of what he's supposed to do, Stiles stands and stares until his dad beckons him. They're led through a door and down a very narrow corridor, poorly lit. It reminds Stiles of the musty basement corridors under Eichen House, and the receptionist waits while John prevents him from having a panic attack with soothing words and helpful breaths.

There are three wooden doors at the end of the corridor, with nameplates just like all the others. The receptionist knocks on the middle one, and then gestures for them to enter.

The man inside is well over 6ft tall, around forty, but he's built like a bear and doesn't look welcoming. He shakes his hand; Stiles could swear he feels claws beneath his fingers.

John doesn't stay; the doctor says it's better if Stiles talks things through alone. One last pitiful glance is thrown his way before it's just him and doc alone in the room.

"Hello, Stiles," he says, voice deep, measured. Surprisingly, it's a lot more welcoming than his appearance. "I'm Dr Lawrence."

A feeling of unease has settled in his bones. He doesn't have time for small talk and introductions. Not while he hasn't slept in three weeks.

"Your father has briefed me on the events of the past few months. I must say, it wasn't the explanation I would have offered when I heard about the disarray in Beacon Hills, but I'm pleased it's been resolved."

Stiles just stares at the pen holder on Lawrence's desk. There are three black biros, one blue, a red sharpie and a ruler.

"I'm not pleased about how much you're suffering, Stiles."

This finally catches his attention. He looks away from the pen holder, up towards Lawrence's face.

"Can you do anything about it?"

The man takes long breaths in and out. Like a sigh, but not as defeatist. His wise eyes follow the movements of Stiles' hands, where he periodically counts the fingers on each hand.

"That depends. It's not as simple as saying abracadabra and things are all going to be ok. We're just going to have to work through everything step by step, like you would with a normal therapist."

"So why can't I just go and see a normal fucking therapist?"

He's angry. In his mind, he was promised answers, promised solutions to his problems and his fears. Instead he's being offered a poor man's replacement.

"Because you can't talk to a normal therapist about werewolves and demons and what happened, Stiles," Lawrence says firmly. "I'm here to help you."

"Please, go ahead." He tries to snap again, like he did in the car, but it just comes out as a whine.

"You need to tell me everything. In order to help you, I need to understand what's happening in your head. Why don't you tell me all the things that are troubling you right now?"

"My dad already told you," he points out. He feels like a fucking child. Which color makes you feel happy. How angry do you feel on a scale of 1 - 10. Have a sticker for being such a good boy.

"He told me what he sees," Lawrence says, leaning back in his chair. He looks less intimidating, like they're having a informal conversation over lunch. "It's not the same. He can't tell me how you feel."

Stiles breathes in deeply. How does he feel?

Lawrence simply waits while Stiles orders his thoughts.

"I feel sick all the time when I think about what I've done. I killed dozens of people. I nearly killed my dad. I hurt Derek. I kidnapped Lydia. I can't sleep because I tried so hard to keep awake, to keep a control of my own mind, and I'm scared that if I go to sleep I'll wake up and I'll have killed someone else. My best friend won't talk to me because the love of his life was killed by an Oni and it's all my fault."

He's cracking, hands shaking beyond his control, throat sore with the effort of swallowing back the lump that's formed there. Lawrence lets him collect himself, watching with those knowing eyes.

"Take your time. Explain to me your friends and their names."

Ok. This is something he can do. The feeling of scrutiny has been present the whole time, and he focuses his speech at the pen holder with the red sharpie in it.

"Scott's my best friend. He's a werewolf. Um, a True Alpha?"

Lawrence takes an intake of breath, his eyebrows raised. This is the first real expression Stiles has seen cross his face.

"Scott dated Allison. It turned out her parents were actually werewolf hunters, long story. But they broke up. He's - was - still totally in love with her, though. Lydia's a banshee. She wasn't until - until Peter Hale bit her. Turns out she has some kind of werewolf immunity, I don't know. We're all... friends."

He hesitates, because he's not sure they ever were all friends. He and Scott were, but Lydia wouldn't spare one glance at him if she hadn't been caught up in everything. Allison, lovely as she was, was only friends with him because of Scott.

"The Yukimuras moved to town and brought the nogitsune with them." His voice breaks over the word nogitsune, _every single time._ "Kira and Scott - I don't know, really, I could barely pay attention -"

He can't think of anything else to say, wondering how much time he really lost, how many things he missed, what he missed out on.

"And who's Derek?" Lawrence prompts.

Surprise colors Stiles' face. He'd forgotten he mentioned Derek.

"Oh, Derek. Um. Derek Hale, nephew of Peter. I guess you might have heard of the Hales?"

"Yes," Lawrence says immediately, gravely. The second time Stiles sees emotion on his face. "We were - acquainted."

"Derek was kind of Alpha for a while. He helped Scott learn wolfy things. I guess he's... An allied pack? I don't know. It just wouldn't be right without him there. Even if he does mess stuff up sometimes."

"So you feel guilty for almost killing him because he's your ally?"

"I - well I'd feel guilty for almost killing anyone," Stiles says defensively. "But Derek. Yeah. He's been through a lot. I feel like we're putting him through a lot more."

"You feel like you've caused everyone a lot of hurt and anguish."

"I _have_ ," he strains. "I didn't do it by choice. But it was still me. It manifested itself in me and tried to make me destroy half the town. Scott's mom got attacked by the Oni. She's basically like my step mom. It _hurts_."

Lawrence waits, thinking. Stiles stews, glaring at the blue biro like it's done him a personal wrongdoing.

"While you need to accept responsibility for the actions your body performed, Stiles, you have to remember that your mind did not choose to make them. You're accepting too much responsibility for being used as a pawn."

A pawn. Stiles recalls a chessboard, with his friends' names affixed to the pieces. He remembers Derek being the King, but he doesn't remember putting them there.

"You think I should tell everyone it wasn't me?" he scoffs angrily. He's not here to be told to deflect the blame onto someone else.

"No," Dr Lawrence continues calmly. "But as I said, your mind did not choose to make these decisions, and your friends need to understand this. Slowly, by talking to them, you can help them understand that you're still you. You aren't going to hurt anybody."

"Right," is all he says. When it's time to leave, he reaches the wooden door and pauses when Lawrence calls his name.

"Remember. I want you to think about what I've said and repeat it to yourself every day. Out loud."

His face screws up. He's not an experiment. He doesn't need lame and stupid TV show-style therapies to help him. "Out loud? I'm not going to talk to myself."

Lawrence shoots him a hard look, startling Stiles into imagining that he can see Lawrence's eyes flash red. "Did you want my help, Mr Stilinski?"

Stiles gulps. He did come here begging for help and it's being given to him. He doesn't know how much his dad is paying for this and he doesn't need to be even more of a burden on the crushing weight of John's load.

"See you next time," he says quietly, slipping out of the door.

When he first tries to speak to himself in the streaky bathroom mirror, he's made sure that his dad is at work and won't overhear him. He'll probably think that Stiles has gone even more nuts and send him back to Eichen House.

He's not sure what to say. He got the general gist from Lawrence but he struggles to form the sentences, a jumble of words not putting themselves together. For a moment, he panics that he cannot read or write, grabbing the book that John has always kept in the bathroom from when his mom used to read in the bathtub. But he gets through the first page of Jane Eyre and it calms him down enough for him to form words.

"I didn't make those choices," he whispers aloud, ignoring the echo of the tiled room. "I'm not going to hurt anybody. I didn't make those choices."

He repeats until the words don't make sense and he feels like an idiot, but it doesn't help him go to sleep that night.

He tries calling Scott a few times but he won't answer or he isn't there because he gets voicemail. His phone drops onto the kitchen table with a thud and his dad rubs his back comfortingly, something which has always calmed Stiles considerably. He thinks it's perhaps because it's an old habit of his mom's.

"I'm going to call Melissa and ask if it's ok for you to go round and try and talk to Scott," John informs him firmly. Stiles looks up in dismay, tries to stop him.

"Dad, we're not 12 year olds that have fallen out over playing cards," he chokes.

"I know. Which is why you need to sort this out."

He ends up being driven over to Scott's, although he thinks he might have preferred the walk. He thinks that John is worried that he might not go to the McCalls' if he doesn't take him himself. Maybe he wouldn't.

The familiar front door looms in front of him as John rings the doorbell. The ring echoes around his skull like a bell of death. He dreads the door opening, and he's pleased it's Melissa that answers.

"Come in," she says with a sad smile. She gives Stiles a crushing mom-hug in the hallway, like she has every time she's seen him since it happened. It's a cold relief that someone apart from his dad still loves him, still wants him the way he is after everything. He grips her tight.

"Go on upstairs, Stiles."

He waits for a few minutes after his dad and Melissa have gone into the kitchen. The staircase just sits and waits for him, each step appearing higher and more unclimbable the more he looks at it. His feet bang like heavy drums with each step until he's in Scott's open doorway.

Scott's sat on the edge of the bed. His room is immaculate, exactly the opposite of Stiles' hovel-like bedroom. He's been cleaning up, trying anything to keep his mind off Allison. It's strange, knowing that a month ago the only thing on his mind was saving Stiles, and now he can barely look at him.

A long silence stretches out as Stiles simply hovers in the doorway. Maybe Scott hasn't noticed him. Maybe he can sneak back downstairs and pretend that they've talked -

"Hi," Scott mumbles, not turning around. His voice is utterly miserable, lost.

"Hi," Stiles repeats. He isn't sure whether or not to cross the threshold of the room. The times when he could climb in through the window without prior asking are long gone.

"How are you?" Scott asks, and then flops back onto his sheets like he knows what a stupid fucking question that was.

"I'm -"

The words are swallowed by silence. Scott nods, expression empty as he stares holes in the ceiling.

"Yeah."

Nausea washes over Stiles like a tidal wave. He doesn't even know what to say. His best friend since childhood is sat in front of him and he doesn't know what to say.

"My dad made me go and see somebody," he tries, clearing his throat through the effort of attempting conversation. Scott sits up and finally faces him. It gives him the courage to take a few tentative steps into the room.

"Yeah? Like, a shrink?"

"I guess. He knows about - about this kind of stuff," he says vaguely. Scott gets it.

For the first time, Stiles notices the scratch marks in the paintwork of the walls next to the window. They slash through the fabric of the carpet too, long strands of unraveled material stretching across the floor like strung booby traps. Scott's obviously having a hard time controlling himself without his old anchor.

"Is it helping?"

"I've only been once." For some reason, he can't tell Scott about what Dr Lawrence has told him to do. Maybe Scott will think it's total bullshit.

"I feel bad for my dad," he says suddenly. "I don't want to put him through all this."

"It's a bit late for that," Scott mutters bitterly, and it cuts Stiles through the chest. For a moment Scott looks like he's debating apologizing, but he doesn't.

"Ok," Stiles replies.

He doesn't say goodbye, just leaves the room with guilt heavy in his chest. He knew this was a bad idea.

"I'm going for a walk," he says when he gets downstairs.

"Let me drive you home, son," his dad insists, but he walks out before he can call him back.

He hasn't been outside alone in weeks. The breeze is cold against his face instead of being pleasant. The sun is too hot in contrast, burning holes in his skin. He's uncomfortable in his own body, like he's borrowing it from someone else, but in fact he has only just got it back.

People give him odd looks as he walks past; the combination of rumors and the fact he looks like death warmed up create something to be gossiped about. He feels sick. The world is being taken out from under his feet as he's now the bad guy, the bad kid. Nobody wants to go near him, a plague that nobody wants to catch. He follows a path away from people, towards the outskirts of town, and beats the familiar path into the preserve.

The rustles and chirps of animals provide a source of paranoia at first, frightening him. But as he continues they become companionable. None of them stare at him. None of them run away in fright, although they might have sensed the great evil a few weeks back and done so then. But now he's just like any other teenage boy.

He's so tired, so fucking tired. Sleep dangles in front of him like someone hanging a carrot in front of a donkey and he stumbles after it blindly, but there's just no catching it. He finds the clearing where the remains of the Hale house stand and just falls into the dry leaves on the ground, the earth soft beneath him. The sky begins to darken as he lies there and just watches clouds roll past. He wonders if there's life after death. If there is, who's up there watching him? Maybe his mom is looking out for him. Maybe the people that he's killed are up there, watching him with disgust, wondering how he can be allowed to roam freely without so much as a consequence.

The consequence is that he has to carry on living. Dealing with the aftermath of everything that's happened is the hardest thing he's ever done, like a tree that's trying to grow through a thick layer of ice and just can't find the strength the crack it and grow through. He's encased in ice, the guilt a barrier around it preventing him from pushing through.

Eventually he gets up and shuffles home, too familiar with these woods now to get lost from the Hale house, even in the dark. His hands rest heavily in the pockets of his hoody. If he could see himself he'd note how much he looked like a zombie; he's glad he doesn't encounter anyone, otherwise they might think Halloween has come early, and he doesn't particularly want to cause anyone more upset.

The moment he shuts the front door John comes barreling into the hallway and grabs him, holds him tight.

"Where the hell have you been, Stiles?" he chokes.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says wearily into his dad's shoulder. "I just lost track of time. I was thinking."

"You didn't even have your phone on you. I was worried sick. I had no idea what to do."

He's hurting his dad again already. He takes his phone out of his dad's hand and puts it into his pocket, promising to carry it with him wherever he goes from now on. To make his father feel better, he sits with him in the front room for two hours watching TV, before going upstairs to kid himself that he's going to get some sleep.

Repeating Dr Lawrence's words is slightly less difficult the more and more he does it. Give him enough time and he might even be able to believe the words he's speaking. He says it quietly though, still not wanting John to overhear.

"I didn't make the choices," he repeats, trying not to count his fingers. "I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not going to hurt anybody."

He's not sure that going back to school is ever going to be a viable option. Everyone is going to stare and make comments. An entire school population's blame is something that he cannot face. The idea of school hasn't even been brought up, although he knows that Scott and Lydia and all of the others are back already.

Lydia frequently messages him and he feels bad for his lacking responses, but she carries on nonetheless. It's trivial things, things he doesn't care about, but things he's glad for because he doesn't want to talk about _it_ and he doesn't want to lose his friends. She came over once but his room is so disgusting that she hasn't bothered making a return.

He hasn't heard anything from Isaac and he barely knows Kira anyway. Regardless, the idea of them blaming him still sits at the forefront of his mind.

Chris Argent has left town. Stiles learns this when he goes for another walk and nobody answers the Argents' door, and a neighbor tells him that Argent has moved out. Stiles has simply finished off a family already smashed beyond repair.

Before he knows it he's being driven back to the doctors' surgery, led down that ridiculous corridor, and into Dr Lawrence's room. There's no introductions this time, but he still ignores the small talk, only responds to serious questions.

"Have you been telling yourself what I asked you to?" is the first proper question Stiles decides to answer.

"Yeah. I felt stupid at first."

"At first?"

"It's not so bad," he shrugs. "I went to see Scott."

"How did that go?"

"He still resents me."

"But he doesn't hate you," Lawrence says.

"I hope not."

"He doesn't."

"How do you know?" Stiles snaps. Lawrence doesn't reply, just scribbles something down conspicuously with one of the black biros that was in his pen holder.

"How about Lydia?" he asks.

"She messages me all the time. About her dog. And fashion designers. And Angelina Jolie."

He pauses.

"I kind of like her talking about trivial things."

"It reminds you that you're still human," Lawrence suggests. "Brings you back down to earth for a few minutes."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees slowly. "Yeah, that's it. It helps her too. Not to think about - about Allison."

"And what about -" he pauses, looking through notes to find a name. "- Derek?"

He's surprised. He wasn't aware he was supposed to be talking to Derek.

"What about him?"

"Have you not tried speaking to him? It appears to me that you're trying to settle all the discord in your life in order to make things easier."

"I don't - we're not really -"

"You said 'it just wouldn't be right without him there'. Sounds to me like you are."

Lawrence's assuming nature gets under Stiles' skin, crawls around underneath it like a wasp stuck under a glass tumbler. He doesn't know anything about it.

"What do you know? You don't even know him," he spits, scratching at the buzzing wasp under his arm. Lawrence sets his pen down, stares at it for a moment.

"I told you I knew the Hales. We were allies."

"Allies?" he repeats. And then,"What are you?"

Lawrence laughs, his melancholy broken as he lifts the pen once more to scribe Stiles' ramblings. Eyes deliberately flash red when he glances up and Stiles knows he didn't imagine it last time. He's an Alpha, and it sends a jolt of panic down his spine.

"How do I know you're not part of some Alpha pack?" he hisses. "How am I meant to trust a werewolf?"

"Only one Alpha pack existed. It should be impossible, hence why there isn't an abundance of them. But my pack is only my family members and myself. Should you wish to bring a werewolf to scope out the territory, you'd be more than welcome."

"Like I've got any werewolves left to bring," he scoffs bitterly. Lawrence's eyes soften at the corners, less scrutinizing.

"In the future, you can bring anyone you want to," he says, kindly but not pitying. "I think you should try talking to Hale."

He's not expecting this, wonders why Lawrence keeps bringing up Derek. Maybe he hasn't seen him in a long time. Maybe he's trying to contact him through Stiles. It makes him nauseous.

"What if I don't want to?" he says, contrary. He's met with a knowing look.

"Do you?"

Does he? "Maybe." Pause. "I don't want to bump into Peter."

"Peter Hale?"

"Yes," he says, teeth gritted because the obviousness of the question grinds his gears. "He's twisted. Sick in the head. I don't like being near him."

"And you believe he may be with his nephew?"

"I don't know."

"Is there any way you'll be able to contact Derek first?"

Stiles thinks. Calling or texting him is just completely out of the question. "No."

So he doesn't call or text. He's not allowed his car back until he's got a regular sleeping pattern, and considering he hasn't slept at all it seems he's going to be walking across town a lot for the time being. The area around the loft is quiet, as it is outside the door too. He raises his fist to knock but it just won't, like two identical ends of magnets repelling each other apart. Dropping the hand, he just stands there, staring down at the undone Converse shoes that he originally put on the wrong feet before changing them around.

Minutes pass where he gets lost in his own thoughts and then slowly, the door opens with a series of metallic clangs. Derek peers through only a tiny gap that he's left, purposefully wary as he stares out in a mixture of surprise and guardedness.

"... Stiles?"

Pulled from his reverie by the deep but oddly gentle tone of Derek's voice, he tries to meet Derek's gaze. He can't bring himself to look him in the eye because he doesn't want to see all of his sins reflected back at him in them.

"Yeah," his voice scratches, before he clears his throat. "It's me."

Painstakingly, Derek moves the door wider in invitation, but Stiles is reluctant. He can't deal with Peter's comments, his frankly disturbing looks that send shivers down Stiles' spine (and not the good kind).

"Is - is -"

"It's just me," Derek confirms quickly. Stiles doesn't know how Derek knew what he meant, but maybe he's sick of Peter too.

Once inside, he's unsure of where to go, so he just stands in the middle of the room, nervously fiddling with his fingers. Derek won't stop looking at him, like he's going to burst into demonic laughter at any moment and throw Derek against the wall again.

"Where is he?" he offers in small talk. A pained look crosses Derek's face.

"Peter left. While you were - you were recovering," he stops; he can't believe what he's going to say. "Kate Argent came back."

Stiles drops back, falling against a crate. This isn't real. Frantically counting his fingers, he considers how the hell Kate could have returned and what it has to do with Peter.

"Stop doing that," Derek orders, but not harshly. "You're not dreaming."

"How - how do you know what I was doing?" he asks, trying to drop his hands into his lap so that Derek can't see them. Derek takes a minute, sits down himself, orders his thoughts.

"When she caught me, I saw you. We were in the locker room, and I asked you - I asked you, how do you know if you're dreaming? And you said extra fingers, people have extra fingers in dreams. And then you showed me your hand, and you had five fingers."

His speech is disjointed, as he never was very eloquent, and the memory is hard to admit. Stiles sees him checking his own hands, unsure of whether or not he's dreaming Stiles again.

"You were dreaming. So where were you really?"

"She shot me," Derek grimaces, talking to the wall in front of him instead of Stiles. "And then Peter killed her."

"How did she - I don't understand."

"She somehow became a were-jaguar. They're -"

" _Blue_?" Stiles interrupts, incredulous. He's read about them before in his quest for knowledge. "But she's gone now, right?"

"Right," he repeats. His frame seems to be engulfed by the room, unlike before when it was he who took up most of the space with his presence. "Peter's gone power crazy. I don't think he's coming back."

And Derek's _sad_. Sad that creepy, pervy Peter is no longer living in Beacon Hills. Sad that his uncle, his only remaining family member besides Cora, is completely off the rails and has been trying to drag this god damn town with him.

"Don't," Derek bites. Stiles forgets he can sense emotions, can sense Stiles' disgust and fear.

"I'm sorry. But you _know_ he wasn't good for you, and for any of us. What good is family if they don't act like it?"

Lines may have been crossed if the following silence is any indication. He adjusts himself against the crate he's fallen on and eventually awkwardly pushes himself to his feet. He doesn't need to be hanging around yet another place where he's not wanted.

But as he takes just one step to leave, Derek meets his gaze again and just talks.

"You've been in the preserve," he states. You've been to my old house, he doesn't say.

"It helps me think. And nobody wants me to piss off when I'm walking, because there's nobody there."

"You should be careful. There could be anything roaming around. Look how she just came back out of the blue."

He avoids Kate's name, as if saying it once is enough to traumatize him.

"I'm sick of trying to be careful. I spent weeks trying to be careful and I still killed half the town," he shoots, the words like envelope glue in his mouth, gagging him and making him almost choke. He leaves, not waiting for a reply from Derek.

Sunlight burns against him like he's been sitting in the desert for an hour, blinding his blackened eyes from the dark squalor of the loft. He's angry again, angry at himself for reasons he can't even understand. All he knows is he wants to kick things, throw things, scratch at the nogitsune's face until it never existed at all and he's only worrying about exams and getting laid.

Lawrence seems disappointed by the encounter when Stiles volunteers it up. Stiles doesn't know whether he expected an enlightenment afterwards, like Stiles can suddenly sleep easy and forget everything that happened now that he's talked to everyone.

"It's not that easy," he tells Lawrence. "I can't just talk to people and then everything will be fixed."

"I know that, but I thought - never mind."

Dr Lawrence has actually lost his composure for a second, and taps his pen against the desk, to measure out his anger and bleed it away into the wood. Stiles watches the pen, which must be new because the red sharpie, blue biro and three black pens are still in the pen holder, along with the ruler. There's something Lawrence isn't telling him, but he doesn't want to be some little guinea pig. He wants to know what exactly Lawrence is doing to help him.

"How are things with Scott?"

"I dunno," Stiles mumbles. "We haven't talked again since. He doesn't want to speak to me."

"Have you tried explaining things to him? Reminding him that you never chose to act out?"

"I don't think that he'll listen."

Lawrence puts the pen down in the middle of the ruled pages in front of him. "Do you think it's worth a try?" he asks, but all Stiles hears is 'Do you think your friendship is worth a try?'

"Yes," he replies immediately. Lawrence heaves a heavy sigh, already a different man to the one Stiles met a couple of weeks ago. He's readable now, more open with his expressions, and Stiles cannot tell whether this is intentional or not. There's just something he finds odd with him, something that keeps him cautious. It might be that Stiles knows that Lawrence is hiding something or it could be something else.

"All I can tell you right now is to keep trying, Stiles. Have you noticed any minor or major improvements in your attempts at sleep?"

Stiles scratches his head lazily, reluctant to share although it's Lawrence's job to listen.

"I thought I fell asleep for a minute yesterday," he admits. "But I think I'd just zoned out."

When he'd jolted awake, or back to reality, he'd experienced a thrill of fear that he'd been out and done something bad again. But the clock had only ticked on a few dozen seconds, and his bare legs were still entangled in the dirty sheets.

"Can you be sure either way?"

He thinks about it. "No. I might have fallen asleep."

Privately, he begs his mind to let him rest. Permanent exhaustion limits his appetite, as well as his effort to do anything at all.

Lawrence takes this as progress and has this pleased look on his face.

Stiles tries to visit Scott again, walks on his own this time while his dad is at work. He walks past a couple of eighth graders, who whisper and giggle behind their grubby little hands at him. He hasn't even the effort to flip them off, arms heavy as weights at his side.

But nobody answers the door. Melissa is out working at the hospital, and he hopes that Scott wouldn't completely ignore him, even if he was upset. Instead Stiles sits for a half hour on the concrete doorstep, the cold seeping through the bottom of his jeans. He's not waiting for someone to return, but he's trying to decide where he wants to go next.

Lydia is surprised to see him, but she looks as happy as she can be when she opens the door to him. She looks a little less polished than usual, bits of her coppery hair flicking up the wrong way and as little make up as she could be bothered to do. She still looks beautifully elegant as she invites him in.

Lydia doesn't usually like to talk about Allison, although she insists upon it this time. She tells Stiles that talking about things is the only way anyone's ever going to get over anything; you can stew as long as you want, but if you keep those feelings bottled up forever then you're never going to be able to let go. Stiles stands by the fact that she's the cleverest girl to grace Beacon Hills.

Mrs Martin looks apprehensive when she pokes her beautifully blow-dried head into her front room and sees Stiles sitting on her plump, immaculate couch. He sticks out like a sore thumb, disheveled and dirty and messed up. All the parents in town have this wary look around him, like he's going to hand them a bomb and then run away before it blows up.

It's a relief when his dad simply asks him what it is he wants for dinner when he returns home. At this time every single day the Sheriff asks, and Stiles always replies that he doesn't know. But today he asks for pizza, tries to ignore the delighted look on his father's face at his response. He makes Stiles come with him to Dominos pizza, order whatever he wants and hold it on the drive back, ignoring the fact that they could have just called and had it delivered.

And he tries to spend time with John again, sitting in front of the tv with the pizza. John's sure to watch light-hearted things, not wanting to set anything off for Stiles.

After dinner he goes for a walk again, despite his dad's concerned warnings that it's dark and it's late and he doesn't want Stiles out by himself at night. Shuffling around like a zombie has become something of a release for Stiles as he treads the trail into the preserve, hearing the soft crunch of leaves beneath his feet. Too late he realizes that he hasn't a light, but soon his eyes adjust to the dark outside and he can make out tree trunks and the paths on the ground.

Something is scurrying along the ground in front of him, a mouse or a squirrel, probably trying to get away from his big pounding feet. He crouches his body forward so he can see it properly and follows its frantic movements, trying to figure out what it is, and then something barrels into him at godspeed and he goes flying. Something hard and heavy is all tangled up with him and he thrashes trying to break free, his frightened yells echoing so loudly though the woods that someone might think he's being murdered. An iron grip on his biceps is pulling him up from the ground and standing him the right way up, attempting to stop his struggling with sound that Stiles is having trouble deciphering into words.

"Stiles, calm down, it's me," he's saying. "It's me, look." A hand is removed from his arm and grabs his chin roughly, pulling him around so that he can see Derek's face.

The panic dissolves slowly, his heartbeat descending. A familiar face, and he can count the fingers that are splayed against his cheeks. Derek removes his hands, taking a step back out of Stiles' space. He's in shorts and a tight shirt, completely drenched in sweat that beads from his hair and drips down his face.

"Why don't you watch where you're running," Stiles says, voice breathy from the scare.

"Sorry," is all he gets. "I've been distracted."

"Distracted? You've got enhanced senses. How could you not see or hear me?"

"I said I've been distracted," Derek snaps, hint of a growl in the back of his throat. Stiles doesn't respond to the verbal assault, his usual quick-witted responses struggling to make an appearance.

"Ok."

Derek's anger vanishes faster than water down a plughole at Stiles' simple response. He's confused, his brow casting dark shadows across his face in the low light, glaring at Stiles like he's done something wrong. Now there's a look he's used to; it makes him feel automatically guilty, his default response for the last few weeks.

"What?" he says quietly, when Derek won't stop looking at him.

Something appears to be greatly interesting Derek in the trees behind him as he struggles to speak, or maybe struggles to get his emotions in check. Now he's not running Stiles thinks he's probably starting to feel a chill from his drenched clothes, until he remembers Derek is a werewolf whose temperature runs high.

"You're not - I'm used to you being - you're so quiet," he stumbles. "There's no fucking annoying stupid comments. No lame embarrassing jokes. Nothing."

He actually feels the blood rushing through his skin, coloring his cheeks. "Well I didn't realize that was how you felt about it."

Actually, he kind of did realize - he's always known he annoys the shit out of Derek, but he kind of did it on purpose and Derek didn't slash him to death so he carried on.

"No, I mean... It's not right. You being so quiet. I don't know how to deal with you," he admits, and Stiles understands what he's getting at. Derek knows how to banter with Stiles. He doesn't know how to deal with raw, open feelings.

"I don't know how to deal with you saying so much at once."

"Was that a joke?"

"I think I tried," Stiles attempts a smile, like the ones he's been trying to give his dad for weeks. He knows everyone can see right through them like glass, but he wants them to know he's trying. He's trying.

"Where are you going at this time?" Derek frowns.

Stiles feels coddled, constantly wrapped in cotton wool, only he can't tell if it's people actually concerned he might hurt himself or concerned that he might hurt them or a little bit of both. He's constantly questioned, 'where are you going' and 'what are you doing', like he's a danger to society that needs to be monitored. Yeah, he definitely _was_. But now he just wants to be left alone to live his life as he always has.

"Just walking," he says defensively.

"It's ok, Stiles. I'm not monitoring you."

"Really? Because it feels like that's what everyone's doing."

"They're - we're - just checking you're doing ok, I guess."

"Does it look like I'm doing ok?" he asks, and he knows the truthful answer. He knows Derek isn't going to beat around the bush either, something he's grateful for now which he wasn't before.

"I'll leave you to it."

Avoiding a difficult conversation like always, but Stiles doesn't mind. He watches Derek's back as he runs off, trying to get back into his broken running rhythm. Bumping into people he knows in the night is something of a small comfort, a reminder of how things were before.

Again he finds himself in front of the blackened ruins of the house in the clearing. It draws him in like a magnet, a familiar but safe-feeling spot for him to lie down and think. The earth is cold tonight, and he wishes he'd brought a coat to keep a layer between him and the chill. As he counts the glowing stars above him, slowly the sky begins to fade and turn black like his eyes are closing and he's going to sleep.

A lightning bolt surges through his nervous system as he jolts awake, the shrill ringing of his phone echoing across the empty ground. He scrambles for the phone where his dad is calling.

"Hello?" he mumbles tiredly.

"Stiles! Jesus kiddo, are you ok? Where are you?"

"What?"

It's the middle of the night and he told his dad he was going for a walk and didn't return or leave a message. Of course he's going to think the worst.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I fell asleep."

An audible sigh. "You did? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think there's something about the outdoors. I don't know."

"Stiles, come home now please."

He still hears the worry in his dad's voice and treads his way back home to please him. It's the early hours of the morning and he feels guilty that he's kept John awake worrying when he has work the next day, but John just wraps him in a hug and walks him upstairs to his room when he gets back, ruffling his hair like he's eleven again.

"I didn't make those choices," he tells the mirror, as he's done every night. "I'm not going to hurt anybody."

Stiles can't get back to sleep in the bed.

Walking through the preserve of an evening becomes something of a routine for Stiles after that. He tells his dad exactly where he's going each time, trying not to notice the concerned look upon his stress-worn face. John probably thinks he's building a nuclear weapon or performing satanic rituals in the middle of the forest.

But the truth is, the woods are just... woods. They're not people (aside from when he runs into Derek - although not as literally as last time), they're not demons, they're not telling him what to do. They just accept his presence, let him wander through unharmed and enjoy their tranquility.

Although it could reasonably be assumed that John keeps in separate contact with Dr Lawrence to discuss Stiles' progress and behavior, the idea had just never crossed Stiles' mind until he goes in one day and Lawrence brings up the preserve.

"I'm pleased you've managed to find a way to get some sleep, if only a little. You're making great progress already. But you've been going out a lot at night, haven't you? You've been spending a lot of time in the Beacon Hills preserve."

For a split second Stiles panics that Lawrence has been following him or indeed, been having him followed. But then he realizes that his dad has been telling tales.

"So?"

"So... Don't you think that might be a little unusual behavior?"

"Taking nature walks? Not as far as I'm aware."

"Stiles..."

"I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm literally finding my own therapy and you're accusing me of going psycho again?"

Lawrence observes Stiles' anger, the way his fingers curl around the armrests of his chair in order to rein it in.

"That's not what I'm suggest-"

"Yes it is," Stiles snaps. "That's exactly what you're suggesting. The nogitsune's gone, it's not in me anymore, I remember everything, nobody's been hurt -"

Lawrence leans forward, holds his arms out placatingly. "It's ok, Stiles, calm down."

"No!"

"I'm not accusing you of -"

"Yes you are! I doubt myself enough as it is without you planting more ideas in my head. I don't have to deal with this shit."

He doesn't even give Lawrence a chance to reply before he storms out and demands to be taken home, scowling at his father's surprised expression. John isn't pleased with his attitude, and Stiles just knows he's going to call up Lawrence the moment he gets home.

John doesn't let Stiles take a walk in the preserve that night, no matter how much he argues for it. He insists that he can only sleep outside, to which John looks fed up and disbelieving. So it's become Stiles' fault again now? He only wants Stiles to deal with this in a way that's suitable for him?

"If you can only sleep outside, we have a back yard," he says, mostly sarcastically, but Stiles takes his advice literally and lies in the unkempt grass behind his house. Things have been too busy lately for anyone to cut it properly and the blades tickle his hands.

He can sleep out here, too. When he wakes up he's covered in a thick blanket, which his dad must have brought out while he was sleeping.

It's just that bed. He can't sleep in it. He doesn't know if it's the memories of him thrashing around in it after suffering nightmare after nightmare and trying to stay awake so he didn't hurt anybody else or not. It's just a sense of deja vu every time he lies down on it, threatening everything that he has been working on to make himself better.

The next night he's trying to sleep outside again when someone appears round the side of the house, deliberately open and loud so as not to creep up on him and scare him. A safety light comes on when the person passes the motion sensor, and Stiles recognizes Derek's silhouette in front of the beams.

"What are you doing?" he asks. It's not weary or contrived like his dad's questions, tired of having to deal with him and fed up of his strange behavior. It's just Derek looking at him like he's an idiot, a familiar sight which almost makes him smile.

"Sleeping," he answers. "Are you checking up on me?"

The shadow Derek's casting moves as he shifts about a little, scratches his neck. "Would you rather I didn't?" he asks, genuine. Stiles knows if he says yes then Derek will leave him alone, but deep down he enjoys the feeling of being checked up on by someone just because they want to, not because they're his dad or his doctor.

"No."

"Okay," is Derek's reply. Light suddenly blinds Stiles as Derek moves across the lawn and sits down with his back against the rough bark of their large tree, some 5 meters from where Stiles is lying.

"Where's Scott been?"

"How do you know I haven't seen him?" Stiles asks, curious, not accusing.

"Your scent changes when you spend more time with other people. You don't smell like Scott anymore."

"What do I smell like?"

Derek's nose wrinkles, mouth downturns at the corners like someone's put shit under his nose. "You smell weird."

Well that's nice.

"Weird how?"

"You smell like someone else. I feel like I recognize the smell, only I have no idea whose it is."

"Probably my shrink," Stiles laughs bitterly. Derek's surprised.

"You're seeing a doctor?" he asks slowly.

"My dad found him. I mean, why wouldn't he? I would if I were him." Derek looks down awkwardly, unsure of what to say, so Stiles continues. "He's a werewolf. That might be why the smell is weird."

This catches Derek's attention and he looks up questioningly. "Might be. What's his name?"

"I forgot his first name. But he's called Dr Lawrence."

"Lawrence," Derek repeats under his breath. "Lawrence. I don't know any Lawrences. Maybe it's just the werewolf smell," he concedes, but he doesn't look persuaded.

"Maybe." He sighs. "Scott won't talk to me - no, that's a lie. Scott blames me."

A large hand runs across the stubble on Derek's face at the difficulty of the situation. "Because of Allison?" he asks.

"Yeah."

Stiles' voice is small, swallowed by the chasm that his throat becomes whenever he tries to talk about her. He misses her smile, her wit, the way her face lit up when she and Scott were together and he told her how beautiful she was.

"It's not your fault."

"So the doctor tells me," Stiles grits. "He -"

Heat flushes his cheeks as he thinks about sharing this information, but Derek's been through enough not to judge.

"He makes me say things. To myself."

"What things?" Derek asks.

"I'm supposed to say that it wasn't me that made those choices. And that I'm not going to hurt anybody any more."

An embarrassed silence follows for Stiles as Derek processes this information.

"It's true."

"Thanks, I guess."

He's not sure what else he was supposed to say, but somebody else reassuring him that it's all over and it's not his fault leaves a lump in his throat.

An amiable silence follows for a while. Stiles tries not to think about how stupid he looks lying in the middle of the lawn at one in the morning.

"How are you doing?" he asks quietly.

Derek's face is picture worthy, at least to Stiles. It saddens him how surprised Derek is to be asked such a question, wonders when the last time was that somebody asked Derek if he was ok. Maybe he bottled things up because nobody asked him to talk things through, and that's not ok.

Stumped, Derek isn't sure how to answer. He doesn't even have the default 'I'm fine' response on the tip of his tongue, because he never has to say it.

"I don't know," he answers. "I've got too much time to think."

If Stiles didn't know exactly what Derek meant he'd claim he was mental. Usually one would say they don't have enough time to think. But when all you have _is_ time to think, you really, really don't want to because all you end up with is painful overthinking that leads to you torturing yourself with guilt.

"Me too. We should try to have less time to think."

"Yeah."

He's not sure if this is some kind of arrangement or just Derek just agreeing that he needs to take up some of his time.

"What have you been doing?"

"Not much," Derek admits, exhaling deeply. "Pondering over my lack of a pack."

"Are you not part of our pack?" Stiles asks. Sure, Derek had his own pack when he was Alpha. But considering he only has Isaac left he's not really got a lot of options, and Isaac spends all of his time with Scott now. He doesn't know if werewolves can switch packs or not but if they can he feels like that's something Isaac might be considering. It's not that he's not loyal to Derek, but Scott's a True Alpha...

"No," Derek says, unsure.

"Oh. I just thought... I don't know. Forget it."

That constipated look is on Derek's face again, the one where he's trying to find a way to word things without them sounding emotional or at all sentimental. Stiles gives him time to do it, knowing how much time he likes to spend on it.

"Does it feel like I'm pack to you?"

Stiles shrugs, like it's obvious. He's thought for a long time that Derek's pack. That night when Derek was lying on his back in the elevator at the hospital, when Stiles risked his wrath and the bones in his hand to try and wake Derek, he thought that it was obvious then. Thought Derek would realize when he woke up to Stiles' hand hovering inches in front of his face.

"Well, yeah."

And Derek's actually smiling. Well, not smiling. His gaze is trained on the knee of his jeans, the corners of his mouth tight where he's fighting the muscles that are trying to bring them up.

"I just thought that it was a given," Stiles continues.

"If it feels like I'm your pack, then I'm your pack," Derek says simply, allowing one side of his mouth to turn up. It's been a while since somebody actually wanted him.

"Don't smile too hard, you might pull a muscle."

"Funny."

Stiles has been struggling to find the humor in anything recently, his dad obviously missing his stupid jokes. But there's something about Derek that just makes him so easy to tease. Maybe the fact that it makes him so awkward, or maybe how angry he gets about dog jokes.

"Go to sleep, Stiles."

"Do you think I'm weird?"

He realizes after asking this question how ridiculous it sounds. He's recently been possessed by a trickster fox demon. Of course he's fucking weird.

"It's fine," Derek says, settling back against the uncomfortable vertical line of the tree. "Do you want to me to go?"

"Don't mind," Stiles mumbles, shrugging. The blanket was left on the kitchen table next to the back door already when he went outside tonight, so it's already providing warmth across his legs and torso. He settles himself underneath it and allows himself to eventually slip out of consciousness.

It's Saturday the next day, and when he's sitting having lunch in the kitchen with his dad John looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"So is there any particular reason that Derek Hale was sleeping against a tree in my yard this morning?"

Stiles is thrown by the question, allowing himself to look surprised. When he'd woken up this morning Derek was gone; John must have been awake earlier.

"We were - he's just -" he breaks off, sighing in exasperation. Just because John knows what's going on with werewolves doesn't automatically mean he'll understand everything that goes with it. "He's pack, I suppose?"

For a moment he can see the incredulous look on John's face that is quickly covered, as he's clearly wondering how he managed to stumble into all this and how it can be real. But he just nods, tucking into the colorful pasta salad he actually prepared for lunch.

"Ok. Be careful."

"I know, Dad," he mutters. He can't even bring himself to get annoyed at the constant mollycoddling.

"I was thinking we could go over the McCalls' again today," John suggests, and Stiles' heart sinks. It's not that he doesn't want to see Scott, he misses him like a hole in the head, but he can't face that betrayed look even one more time.

"Ok," he agrees miserably.

Scott's sat outside this time, looking into the koi pond in the back garden like it holds the answers to all of the world's questions. Isaac makes an appearance as Stiles is walking through the house, and much to his surprise, grabs him into a tight, gripping hug. It's the first time Stiles has seen Isaac since the night Allison died, but it's some kind of sick relief to know that Isaac isn't mad at him. He and Isaac never even got on.

"I'm really glad you're back," Isaac murmurs into his shoulder. He can feel the vibrations of his voice.

"Thanks," he chokes out.

"I - I talked about things with Scott. He'll come round. He needs something to blame otherwise he won't know how to grieve. When your mom... died, who did you blame?"

The shock of the mention of his mom is as cold as an icy bucket of water over his head, as it is every time it happens. He gulps back an excess of saliva in his mouth.

"The doctor."

"Did it help you grieve?"

"Yeah," he admits. "But I know it wasn't the doctor's fault."

"I know," Isaac places a heavy hand on his shoulder. "It helped me too."

The memory of the amount of shit Isaac has been through in his life washes over Stiles in one go; he'd pretty much forgotten, put it to the back of his mind. But they're not so different, he and Isaac. Maybe they don't have to be so angry at one another all the time.

"Thanks, Isaac," he says sincerely, leaving him in the hallway as he goes out to join Scott.

"It's me again," is his greeting. He doesn't see why he has to be polite after last time. He's not going to grovel, no matter how much he wants Scott back. He didn't make those choices.

"Hi, Stiles."

Scott is still miserable, a visible slump in his shoulders, but his voice is trying to be more welcoming. The effort is see-through, but at least he's making one.

"It's been a while," Scott continues, his hands jiggling nervously in his pockets. His back is to Stiles as he looks into the pond; at least he seems to trust him enough to turn his back on him.

"I didn't think you wanted to see me."

"I didn't," Scott admits. He's struggling, kicking at the hard ground glumly with his shoe, hands still fidgeting. "It's been hard. I've been locked in my own head.

"There was nobody else to blame, Stiles. I couldn't blame the Oni. They're gone. And it has to be somebody's fault otherwise the universe doesn't make sense to me."

"I get it," Stiles says, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone.

"I'm trying really hard not to be angry with you. My mom keeps telling me that if I lose you as well then I won't have anything left."

"You'll have her," Stiles offers. He misses Mrs McCall, popping in with snacks during a gaming session, taking them to lacrosse games and out for food afterwards, spending important holidays at the Stilinski house.

"I can't just live with my mom my whole life."

Finally, Scott turns around to look at Stiles. His eyes have bags too, although nowhere near as bad as Stiles' had been. Scott's are puffy, making his small eyes look even smaller, throwing his face off balance. Long locks of brown hair fall into his eyes; he needs a haircut too.

"I miss her so much," he says, voice breaking in the middle. Stiles pretends he can't see Scott's eyes shining. "I'm trying, Stiles."

"But you still resent me."

Resigned to his fate, he sighs. He's not angry at Scott; he doesn't _want_ to hate Stiles.

"Give me time," Scott begs. "Please. I don't want to lose you."

"I'll be waiting," Stiles promises, his stomach turning sickening flips. "Whenever you're ready."

Tears that have been collecting in Scott's eyes spill down his cheeks as he stumbles forward, falling into Stiles in an awkward hug. His arms clasp around Stiles' back, and Stiles buries his face in Scott's shoulder to hide his own salty tears. For now, this hug is enough to tide him over until Scott is ready.

Stiles is allowed back out on his walks in the preserve, even though his dad is always worried about him. There's a funny feeling in the back of Stiles' mind that John believes Derek is taking care of Stiles, or that he'll be safe whenever Derek's around. Derek laughs in his face when Stiles voices this.

"Your dad probably would probably prefer to face me with a shotgun."

"Not everybody wants to shoot you, Derek. Stop being such a drama queen."

"You what?"

They're sat on the porch of the Hale house, cross-legged and facing one another. Seeing Derek sitting cross-legged is like seeing a horse doing the grocery shopping; it's just weird. His bulky frame still takes up too much space, but he looks so much more open, more vulnerable sat in this position.

"You heard me."

Derek laughs; well, more of an exhalation through his nose and a weak smile as he looks down at his hands. Every time Stiles sees someone look at their hands now he wonders if they're counting their fingers.

"There's something weird about my shrink," Stiles says suddenly. Derek glances up, his dark eyes showing that he's listening, paying attention. His raised eyebrow says 'continue'.

"I just feel like he's keeping something from me. I thought we were supposed to be open with each other, I don't know."

"Why do you get that feeling?"

See, his conversations with Derek are his favorite. Because when Derek asks questions, it's because he wants to know the answer. It's not patronizing, or placating. If he didn't want to know, he simply wouldn't ask.

He can't quite put his finger on what it is that gives him the feeling; he opens his mouth to start speaking a couple of times, but closes it again pretty quickly.

"What does he do that's weird?" Derek prompts, subtly rephrasing his question. This is easier to answer.

"Well... He brings you up. Like, all the time."

Derek's quite often a little surprised by the things that Stiles says, but he's really confused now. He grips Stiles around the wrist, his skin hot, and holds Stiles' hand up in front of his face.

"You're not dreaming," Stiles confirms. "It's really weird. I thought it might have been because I explained to him who everyone was the first time I was there, and he asks about Scott and stuff. But he talks about you. All the time. Like asks whether I've seen you and stuff."

Derek's hackles are raised, his mouth now set in a grim line, years of bad experiences causing him to suffer from paranoia. Stiles takes his wrist from where Derek's hand still grips it and without thinking, puts his hand in Derek's. Either Derek doesn't notice or he doesn't mind, because he doesn't make any movement.

"Derek, it's not going to be like that. He's not going to attack you. He might be a family friend. He did mention..."

"He mentioned what?" Derek asks quickly.

"Right at the beginning, weeks and weeks ago, he said that he knew the Hales. That he used to be an ally. Before everything."

"An ally," Derek repeats, looking down at their hands where they rest together. "We had lots of allies. My parents dealt with them, and my older siblings. I don't remember."

"You said the scent was familiar. Surely even if you didn't know whose it was you would have recognized if it was dangerous?"

Derek nods thoughtfully. "I think you're right. When do you next see him?"

"A few days. I'll tell you if he brings you up again."

"Ok."

The conversation has caused a solemn mood to descend upon the porch, and Stiles tries to find something funny to say to break it. Because that used to be his job, right?

"I bet you've never been so popular."

"That's what you think," Derek smirks. "I used to be captain of the lacrosse team."

" _What_?" Stiles gasps, betrayed. "How come I never knew this?"

Derek shrugs it off. Never been one for attention, even if it's from someone he knows. Stiles can't imagine how he dealt with being the captain of the lacrosse team, then. Maybe he was different back then, before the fire.

He shoots his dad a message, telling him that he's ok and he's hanging out with Derek. The response is surprisingly non-militant, John simply saying ok and to text him before he goes to sleep and when he wakes up, of course with the obligatory 'be careful'. Stiles doesn't know why his dad is ok with him sleeping in the middle of the forest.

"Your father talked to me the other day," Derek admits at Stiles' confused look at the phone in his hand. "I guess you're probably right. For some reason he trusts me. Probably because I'm a werewolf and I can attack things."

"As long as it's not me I don't care."

"Yes. Attack things for you. Not attack you. I don't think he'd like that."

"No."

Instead of sleeping outside, they go into the house where there's a room that doesn't look like it's about to collapse on them and sleep on the floor. Stiles doesn't even question why Derek has been sleeping with him in all these funny places recently; if he can't really give much of a reason for himself, why should Derek have to? If it makes them sleep easier, by being in the same room, then who's anyone to break their habit?

Dr Lawrence has begun to ask the same inane, boring questions every time Stiles visits, and now he's starting making progress without the questions progressing too, he feels like he's reaching a plateau. Lawrence was particularly interested in Stiles' friendship with Scott, and how Scott is beginning to come round to Stiles. For once, he hasn't brought up Derek (yet), and the desire to confront him is itching at Stiles.

"Why do you always bring up Derek?" he blurts, while Lawrence is mid-speech. Lawrence's features contort in shock at the outright accusation, he tries to cover his expression quickly, but Stiles saw the guilt at having been caught out.

"I'm sorry?"

"Every single time I'm here you ask me questions about Derek. I swear you spend more time making me talk about him than anyone else. So what is it? You got beef with him? Trying to figure out his whereabouts? Want to stalk him?"

Lawrence sighs, places his pen on the table next to the pen holder, which annoys Stiles because he could have literally moved it a couple of inches and put it inside next to the red sharpie. His face is defeated.

"Fine. At your next appointment, I want you to bring Derek with you, and I'll explain everything."

Stiles is skeptical. "Why can't you just explain now?"

"Because he needs to hear about this in person."

Stiles spends the next few days with a knot in his stomach. Lawrence's words had sounded ominous, like he was warning of things to come. It takes Stiles a couple of days to convince Derek to come with him, talking him through his paranoia and reminding him that he needs to find out why this werewolf keeps asking questions about him.

John is told that Derek knows Lawrence (Stiles has already told his dad that his doctor is a werewolf) which is why he's joining them. John just sighs in defeated consent and attempts to make idle conversation with Derek, who's sat in the back seat.

The long corridor to Lawrence's office seems narrower now Derek's broad shoulders are taking up all the space. He marches straight into Lawrence's office without knocking, surprising the other werewolf where he sits at his desk. Nobody speaks for a while, the two werewolves simply staring at one another.

"You're related to me," Derek states warily. Stiles' jaw literally drops from where he's peeking out behind Derek. "Who are you?"

"Michael Lawrence," he says, standing up and offering his hand, which Derek reluctantly shakes. "I'm your cousin. My younger sister - she died in the Hale fire."

"Darcy," Derek exhales. "Darcy?" he repeats again, for confirmation.

"Yes."

"This is why you've been asking me so many questions!" Stiles exclaims, accusingly.

"Yes," Lawrence admits, sighing. "I was too afraid to approach you, Derek. After everything that's happened to the pack, or packs, in Beacon Hills, I knew you wouldn't trust me. You might not believe me."

"So you must have had a field day when I came in and mentioned Derek," Stiles mutters petulantly, throwing his toys out of the pram. He has a right to be annoyed that the doctor who was supposed to be helping him had a secondary motive.

"I'm sorry, Stiles. But my first priority has always been helping you to get better."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, crossing his arms. "I know."

"Why haven't you contacted me sooner? If I'd known there were more -"

Derek breaks off, obviously a little upset. Of course he would have liked to have known he had more family, even if they weren't immediate brothers or sisters. After Cora, and after this, he's going to be constantly wondering if there are more out there.

"When I last visited Beacon Hills there weren't any Hales there," Lawrence says. "It's only recently that I heard of Hales returning home. And of course you've all had your hands full for a long time, what with... well, various things. I didn't want something like this getting in the way."

"In the way? Do you not think we could have done with some help?" Stiles cuts in.

"As I've already mentioned, my only pack is my immediate family, my wife and my children. I wouldn't have been of much use, and of course, I would have had to have spent a long time building a bridge of trust before it would have been acceptable for me to fight with you."

"Not necessarily," argues Stiles. "Derek never trusted me, not even when I held him up in a pool for two hours while trying not to get mauled by a kanima. And we still managed to get shit done."

Lawrence (or Michael) looks taken aback, all of them still standing awkwardly in the close proximity the room forces them into. He clearly didn't know as much about Beacon Hills as he thought.

"I do now," Derek says, clearly not looking at Stiles, who feels oddly touched. He smiles to himself as Derek continues. "So you're right," he says to Lawrence. "It would have taken some time. But... you're more than welcome to come by any time. With your family, too. It'd be nice to have some -"

He cuts off, but Michael nods in understanding, his mouth tight in empathy. "Of course. I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

"Derek, let's go," Stiles urges, still irritated. Lawrence opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but Stiles cuts him off.

"I think we're done here," he says, not asking. "You can let my dad know I'm done with my sessions so he doesn't have to spend any more money. And you two can sort things out when I'm not supposed to be having a therapy session, all right?"

They both at least have the decency to look guilty; Lawrence sinks back into his leather chair, taps his fingers gently on the edge of the desk. Stiles grabs Derek's wrist and physically drags him from the room and into the corridor, where Derek pauses and rests his back against the dark wall, dragging his free hand across his face, jaw slack.

"I guess you weren't expecting that, huh?"

"No," Derek says, voice heavy with shock or disbelief.

"But it's cool, right? I mean... To find out you have more relatives you didn't know about?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Derek pauses. "I'm glad," he says eventually.

Stiles' fingers are still wrapped around Derek's wrist. Derek's head is bent down, his eyes latch onto the hand around his arm. Gently, he twists his wrist out of the loose grip and catches the fingers of Stiles' hand before he can pull them away, slotting them in between his own and enveloping the warmth with a soft squeeze.

"You're not going to any more sessions?"

"I don't think so," Stiles sighs. "I mean... I've been making progress, I guess. But I think you might have helped more with that than he did."

Another squeeze of his hand, because Derek doesn't know how to take compliments. But he reaches out and captures Stiles' other hand too, looking down at their joined hands like it's a completely foreign concept.

"And it'll just be awkward now, what with this whole thing. I don't think starting all over again with another doctor is going to be helpful."

"It's ok," Derek assures him. "It's not me you have to explain it to. Your father's outside."

"Oh shit."

John finally seems to have figured out why Stiles has been sleeping as far away from his room as possible, because one day Stiles comes into his bedroom and barely recognizes it. The walls are now a soft yellow, the paint glistening as it's clearly still wet. The old bed is completely gone, replaced by another with metal framework rather than wooden, and brand new bedsheets. It's on the other side of the room in a different position, with the other furniture rearranged into a completely new room. He stands there, staring, until John appears in the doorway behind him.

"I figured the familiarity was stopping you from releasing all those bad memories," he says sheepishly, worried that Stiles is going to be angry that his room has been changed. "I thought maybe if it didn't feel like your room you'd be able to sleep. If you don't like it, I can change it back -"

"No," Stiles says immediately, silently demanding a Stilinski hug from the Sheriff and holding on to the only family he has left. "Thank you, Dad. I would have never have thought of that."

"Course you would," John ruffles his hair. "Always the clever one. You just need to give your brain time to sort itself out and you'll be telling me the entire history of the internet in no time."

A teary laugh escapes his throat, the first time he's genuinely laughed at his dad in months, and John drags him in for another hug which involves an embarrassing amount of tears that they both hastily wipe away.

John was surprisingly ok with Stiles quitting his therapy. He said that his son no longer looked like a living corpse, no longer acted like he was dead inside. Everything wasn't suddenly ok, but the effort Stiles has made is good enough for him. There might have been more teary father-son hugs.

When he gets into the bed that night, it feels completely different. It's not his. He can't ever remember thrashing about on this bed, or waking up there and not recalling anything he's done for the last three days. But now he feels alone, the cool sheets opposite to the warmth that usually radiates for several feet around Derek. He hopes Derek isn't alone, waiting for him in the preserve. Maybe he'll come check if Stiles is sleeping in the garden again.

He hears a knock at the front door but thinks nothing of it, can't make out the muffled voices downstairs. But then there's a quick knock at his bedroom door.

"Hello?"

It opens, and Derek comes through the door and shuts it again straight away, leaning back gently on it as he surveys the room.

"Looks nice."

"My dad did it. Kind of genius, actually."

"Do you think it'll work?" Derek asks, and that might be a bit of disappointment in his voice. Not that Stiles is getting better, but that their little routine is changing.

"I think so. Did my dad let you in?"

"Yes. He's - he's treating me very well," Derek says evenly, closed expression again.

"I think he's just glad that we're helping each other out," Stiles says quietly, fiddling with his fingers. For the first time, he realizes that he is not counting them. "And now probably that I'm not sleeping on the floor of the woods."

 "Yeah."

"But... But I like the company," Stiles says, clearing his throat awkwardly. He doesn't want to push Derek away; their trust, their tentative companionship. "You know, if you still didn't like sleeping alone."

"Yeah," Derek repeats dumbly, shifting from foot to foot. "Your dad won't mind?"

"As I said, it's this or the preserve," Stiles attempts a smile.

"Ok," Derek says, slipping off his shoes, hanging his jacket carefully over Stiles' desk chair. Stiles tries not to be awkward as Derek slides into the bed, breathes slowly to even out his heartbeat. Of course it's more awkward than when they just lay on the floor and fell asleep however, now restricted to the confines of the bed, but he's so glad he's not alone.

"When are you going back to school?" Derek asks later, as they lie facing each other.

"I don't know. But soon, I think. Now I'm not seeing Dr Lawrence - or Michael.." The name sounds foreign on his tongue, strange now he knows that Derek's got more cousins. More family. "And you know, now I'm sleeping and stuff."

"You look a lot better," Derek concedes. It's true that he does. Black rings have faded to heavy lines under his eyes, his dad forced him to have a haircut. He's stopped chewing his lips so much, so they aren't dry and bleeding.

"I don't know if I'll be better for a long time," he admits, kind of frightened. Derek reaches his hand out across the pillows and strokes his hand gently through Stiles' hair, a comforting gesture that makes Stiles' eyes flutter shut.

"Go back to school, get up to date with your classes. Join the lacrosse team again. I know it all sounds trivial now, like it doesn't matter. But once you begin to get back into a routine it's easier to begin to leave it all behind."

Derek's voice is strained. Stiles knows he's speaking from experience; although he'll never get over his family, there's a way to push the inescapable grief to the back of his head rather than it being at the forefront of everything.

"I'll try," he promises. "Are you worried about Peter?"

Derek sighs, like he's been trying to avoid thinking about Peter as much as he can. "Right now I can't afford to be worried about him," he admits. "I guess... I'll just worry about it when it becomes a problem."

"Not if?"

"No. When."

Involuntarily, Stiles lets out a shaky sigh. "Wow. I'm so glad I've got something else to look forward to. I was hoping this town was just going to go back to normal."

Derek lets out a sad laugh. "Did you really think it was going to happen?"

"No," Stiles admits. "But I can hope, right?"

"For now, there's nothing like that to worry about. Don't waste your time waiting for it," Derek says, and since when did he become so wise and good at advice?

To the soft rhythm of Derek's hand in his hair, Stiles falls asleep. When Stiles wakes up, Derek is holding onto him tightly, breathing softly, his face buried in Stiles' chest against his beating heart. He repeats Derek's gesture from last night, repeatedly stroking his fingers through Derek's soft hair while he sleeps contentedly.

He receives a text about an hour after he wakes up, still just holding onto Derek. It's from Scott, and it simply says,

' _I've got loads of your missed homework piled up here. Wanna come round and start working through it?_ '

And he smiles, his face aching from the lack of use. Because maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be ok.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (representation of the doctor not meant to be accurate to real life)  
> Thank you for reading :)


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